


Rammtober 2020

by NikoNotHere



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Worship, Breathplay, Domestic Fluff, Drug Abuse, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Halloween, Haunting, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, October Prompt Challenge, One Shot, Past Drug Use, Rammtober, Supernatural Elements, drug overdose, stage fright
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27279271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikoNotHere/pseuds/NikoNotHere
Summary: Rammtober 2020! Each chapter will be 500-1000 words or less and titled with the prompt for that day. I didn't get to this until the last possible second, so we'll see how many I *actually* get done. I'll post as I finish each prompt. Let's get to it!!Small edit: I am continuing this through November since I fell in love with some of these prompts and really want to finish them
Relationships: Paul Landers/Christoph Schneider | Doom, Richard Kruspe/Till Lindemann, Till Lindemann/Christian Lorenz | Flake
Comments: 36
Kudos: 46





	1. Shaky Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Flake's hands shake

It always happened at the worst time. You’d think he’d be used to this feeling by now, with the garbled noise from the crowd and the loudness of the instruments around him; not to mention the various bangs and roars of the pyrotechnics. He wasn’t even constantly at the front of the stage, and had a nice keyboard and goggles to hide behind. Till had given him the goggles idea.

So, despite all this, why did he always get so worked up halfway through the show? It was like clockwork now, and he was worried it had accidentally become a solidified habit. His hands trembled, making notes he hit sound shaky and warbly rather than solid beats he would normally hit. It would get progressively worse once he noticed it. The last few times it happened, he’d been able to scurry off for a break-- using the bathroom, having a smoke, taking a few shots, even speed walking back and forth in the halls outside the green rooms. Today though, they’d been given an incredibly strict schedule to stick with, and couldn’t stop the set unless for an emergency. Unfortunately, stage fright didn’t exactly qualify as that.

He’d begged Till to help, since he knew Till had the same issues. All he’d done was give him some goggles and tell him to drink more. He *couldn’t* drink more or he’d either fall over or piss himself before the end of the concert, neither of which were appealing or things he’d live down very easily.

A shadow enveloped him suddenly, and he glanced up from the keys in surprise. Richard, in his stage hat, had sidled up to him and was sliding him something. Flake took it, and after a quick nod, Richard marched his way back to his spot and continued playing. He looked down at the small item clutched in his shaking hand. It was a cigarette! Now if he were lucky, he might still have his lighter buried in his pants pocket underneath the metallic stage outfit…

Yes! There it was, cold metal greeting his fingertips. He silently thanked all gods, real and unreal as he fished out the lighter and immediately flicked it to the end of the cigarette. Only a moment passed before he felt the familiar tingle down into his lungs. Warmth spread from the inside out, and he instantly felt his tension easing. The shakes in his hands eased, then stopped entirely. One of the sound guys was waving at him frantically offstage, probably to tell him "please don't smoke near flammables and expensive equipment." He didn't give a single fuck at the moment. 

After a few more drags in between playing, he glanced across the stage at Richard who was already staring his way. He nodded and raised the cigarette to Richard slightly, a “thank you.” Richard simply inclined his head, his soon-to-be-on-fire hat dipping with him. He’d buy him a new pack later, and properly thank him for this perfect little lifeline.


	2. Pet Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul and Schneider make up a guessing game for the band.

“Joe Letz,” Richard insisted. “Who else could it be?”

“Joseph Stalin.” Groans rounded the table at Flake’s casual guess.

“Why on earth would we choose the English version of Stalin’s first name?” Schneider demanded, to which Flake just shrugged.

“The name has “Jo” in it. It’s a perfectly valid guess.”

Till suddenly looked like he was barely holding back an attack of the giggles which made all other band members immediately suspicious. 

“Dare I ask?” Paul ventured, trying to hold back his own laughter in anticipation of whatever terribly demented guess Till had.

“He’ll tell us regardless,” Richard said with a sigh, fingers pressing at his forehead.

Everyone watched as Till fought valiantly to keep his face neutral, but the cracks were beginning to show in the tiny twitches along his mouth.

“It stands for Joe…” the vocalist began quietly, somehow maintaining his stony facade right until the end. “Joe Mama.”

Paul cackled outright, stomping his foot and pointing a finger between wheezes at Till who had succumbed to the giggles. The rest all groaned even more loudly than at Flake’s guess.

“No,” Schneider said flatly, his face sour at the horrific pun that only made Till and Paul laugh harder.

“Joan of Arc,” Oli suddenly interjected as Richard and Flake stood up to leave in irritation.

“What? No, why--” Schneider asked in bewilderment before Paul reached across him, holding their puppy up directly in front of Oli’s face.

“Sorry,” Paul said, being sure to put the held-puppy’s decidedly male body part right at eye level for the now-blushing bassist. “This one’s a boy. Not short for Joan of Arc.”

“Then what?” Richard asked grouchily, throwing his hands up in defeat. He’d been so sure it was Letz.

Paul and Schneider looked at each other for a moment, then smiled simultaneously.

“You’ll just have to keep guessing,” Schneider said with a shrug as he went back to petting the new puppy that was squirming around in his husband’s lap.

Richard and Flake left in a huff. Till continued to make terrible puns as Oli reached over to join in the puppy petting with Schneider. Paul looked up from the happy animal in his lap and met Schneider’s contented gaze, and the two recalled the *real* story behind the naming of their new animal.

As soon as they’d gotten the puppy home, Schneider put on a Joe Cocker album. The little hound dog immediately perked up and began howling, to Schneider’s amazement and Paul’s amusement. 

“He likes it!”

“He hates it!”

The husband’s different interpretations of the situation made them both laugh, with Schneider insisting finally someone in the house had good music taste, and Paul arguing it howled for them to turn it off like he always did. They agreed to disagree, and named the pup “Joe” in honor of the song he either hated or loved. Everyone else having no idea about the origin of the name in the game was just icing on the cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Played a little fast and loose with the prompt here, as I know good and well it was meant as a different prompt entirely. I blame [Fleischgewehr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLEISCHGEWEHR/pseuds/FLEISCHGEWEHR) as they gave me this incredible idea for husbands with badly-named pupper from my previous work of them with a puppy.


	3. Delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flake and Schneider share a transcendent experience

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I know. It is happening, right?”

“I’m not moving my mouth. Are you?”

“No.”

“Then it’s happening.”

With that last thought, Flake felt his mind had been blown wide open. He was on another plane entirely, lost in the delirium of whatever they'd smoked. The guy said it was weed, but Flake had smoked his fair share in the past and never felt anything so transcendent-- much less telepathy. But here they were, and Schneider was confirming it right next to him.

“We’re talking with our minds,” Schneider thought in amazement. He looked over, and sure enough, he didn’t see Flake’s mouth moving despite hearing him speak.

“So… what do we do now?”

“Um, I have no idea. This seems like something we should tell other people, right?”

“No!” Flake’s silent exclamation somehow hurt Schneider’s-- well, not ears. Brain maybe? Whatever-- it was loud.

“Don’t yell. I can hear you perfectly in my head.”

“Sorry,” Flake said, in a much more reasonable mental tone. “I mean, I think we should keep it between us. Everyone else will just think we’re high.”

Schneider nodded sagely. This was true. He doubted anyone on their same plane of thinking would be able to understand this telepathy anyhow. Best to keep it to themselves, as Flake suggested.  
“Then what should we do?”

The two stood silently on the street for what felt like half an eternity. After glancing at his watch, Schneider discovered it had only been 45 seconds. Time dilation was pretty normal for him when he smoked marijuana. Telepathy though, was not, and he was still busy marveling at his newfound ability. 

“Hey, Schneider,” he heard Flake think toward him.

“What?”

“I think…” 

Schneider suddenly felt hilarity overflow in his mind, and realized he was feeling Flake’s laughter mentally. It was a refreshing feeling, sensing someone else’s happiness, and he found himself laughing along with him, though still not moving his mouth. He held onto Flake, who also hugged him right back in conjoined pleasure. The two were oblivious to the rest of the world around them, which was busy avoiding what looked like two drunk idiots hugging and snorting and giggling with one another.

When Flake finally composed himself after his mental laughing fit, he held Schneider out at arms length and put a very serious, intense look on his face.

“Schneider,” he said silently, his mental voice very firm and determined.

“Yes?” Schneider wondered whether Flake was about to impart some otherworldly wisdom through their drug-induced telepathy. He waited, breathless.

“I am going to throw up now.”

With that, Flake ducked his head and retched to the side, thankfully away from Schneider. He, with some sadness, had seen Flake’s lips move as he spoke before vomiting into the street gutter.

Oh well. There had still been several minutes that Schneider was absolutely sure had been beyond explanation. He helped Flake to his feet and patted him comfortingly as they went back to their hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on an interview I only vaguely recall where Schneider said he and Flake once smoked weed and could talk to each other solely through their minds, and then threw up and went to bed.
> 
> Edit: found interview! It was not quite as I remembered, but still hilarious. Thanks to Wahnsinn for digging it up ^_^
> 
> "I had a nice experience once, but I think it was something to do with drugs. I was with Flake, and we were standing in front of a bar one night, with some people we knew, and they had a cigarette. It looked like a cigarette and it tasted like it was a cigarette, but I never found out what kind of cigarette it was. Half an hour later, I talked to Flake – with my mind. And he talked to me in this way, too. For half an hour, we had conversations about the people around us, and then I don’t remember any more – I think I lost my mind and passed out. My girlfriend picked me up and I threw up for the rest of the night, and had a really bad experience!"


	4. Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till wrestles with his inability to let go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to [Struwwel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/struwwel) for their help in teaching me about German burial/funeral things < 3

Till brushed his thumb along the delicate pattern of the urn. It was hand-painted by one of the elders in the village, a man Till had known since birth. He’d been honored when Till asked him to paint it, and had given it back with reverence and his sincere condolences. 

“She would have loved it,” Till assured as he tried to pay the craftsman handsomely. 

The man refused.  
“My gift for her,” he insisted, pushing Till’s handful of money back.

So many people had done the same, bringing loads upon loads of gifts ranging from food to hand-woven baskets to huge bouquets of flowers. Till’s house was stuffed to the brim with well wishes in physical form. He’d not be hungry for weeks at minimum, and he had no idea what to do with all the cards he’d received. His mother had truly been a special person.

Rather than trying to figure out what to do with the gifts, Till instead traced the colorful design on the urn again. 

“How do you expect me to let you go?” he murmured at the small container. “Just bury you like you asked-- I don’t know if I can.”

She had been firm in her decision against a normal burial. It was a waste of money and resources, and she didn’t like the idea of being entombed in a morose graveyard. Thus, she’d requested cremation, with her ashes being buried near her favorite meadow outside their village. Till had wrestled with this decision, though of course had promised to honor her wishes.

Now, it just seemed too hard. He couldn’t do it. Till already felt an overwhelming ache he knew would never go away just with her physical presence missing from his life. He’d never hear her laugh, her encouragement, her telling him she was proud of him...

A sob welled up in his throat but he held it off. He had time to cry later. For now, he needed to decide what to do.

A gentle knock at his door helped Till raise his head and focus elsewhere.

“Come.”

Paul entered the room, his face worn and saddened. He said nothing as he walked over, noting the urn in Till’s hands. He gave Till a brief hug after sitting beside him on the bed. Till was thankful for that. He’d had enough “sorry for your loss” condolences to last him a lifetime, and didn’t need more.

“Are you okay?” was all Paul enquired softly.

After a deep breath, Till nodded.

Paul nodded as well, glad that his friend was doing well under the circumstances.  
He sighed, then said, “I hate to bring it up, but merchandising waits for no one, especially not ours. They gave me these prototypes to have you approve when you can. Everyone else already signed off on them.”

Paul dug in his pocket and pulled out a small jewelry bag which Till took without a thought. He really didn’t care what their merchandising team was doing. They had basin plugs with their logos, for god’s sake. But he was still required to approve the ideas before they were sold in the Rammstein store, as was everyone else in the band.

Setting the urn down carefully beside the bed, Till dumped the contents of the bag into his palm. A watch face in the shape of the R+ logo and a tiny inlaid map of Germany glinted at him-- it was fine. There was a key-shaped pendant with the R+ logo at the top and “Liebes Nest” across the bottom-- that one was pretty, actually. 

The final piece of jewelry caught his full attention instantly. It was a tiny glass tube with a metal R+ logo dangling from the middle.

“What’s this?” Till asked, his voice a bit gravelly from choking back his emotions all day.

Paul rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry; the timing is horrible. But they thought a necklace with ashes would fit our aesthetic really well, so…”

Till didn’t reply. He just turned the little glass over and over in his hand, watching as the ashes inside tumbled around gently.  
“Can I keep this?” he murmured.

Paul was confused. “Um, sure. It’s just a prototype. Do you think it’s--”

“They’re all fine,” Till interrupted. “I’m sorry Paul, but I need to be alone now, I think. Thank you for coming by.”

Paul immediately looked relieved and took the rest of the jewelry back. “Of course. We love you, Till. Let us know if you need anything.”

Till nodded again, thankful that Paul knew him well enough not to pry and to respect his wishes.

After his friend had left, Till held up the urn again, lovingly brushing his finger along the pattern once more. He knew his mother would have hated seeing him in distress like this, and he could practically hear her comforting voice telling him to do whatever he felt he needed to do.

Till brought the urn up and gently placed his forehead against it, his tears finally escaping to run down his face as he sobbed.

\---

The ceremony was small, as requested. Though many in the village were disappointed not to be able to be there, they understood his mother’s wishes and respected them. The few people that gathered gave their blessings and then left quietly, until Till was all who remained. As the sun rose, gently filtering through the trees around him, he lowered the urn into the little hole he’d dug by hand, whispering his goodbye. The cool glass of the vial of new ashes around his neck reminded him she wasn’t truly gone, and he knew that when he was finally ready, he would bury the necklace as well and complete his promise to his mother. 

For now, he wept silently as he buried the urn in the morning sunlight.


	5. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till's self hatred and shame is never more visible than when he thinks of his scars

Till hated the look, the feel, everything about them: the ugly, jagged, pale, scrunched up lines that ran down his arm. They were downright repulsive, and even though he leaned strongly into the persona they gave him onstage-- as a raucous, uncaring brute with open wounds and bloody stripes-- he still hated them. His stage persona wasn’t him, not by a long shot. 

However, Till diligently portrayed that persona night after night to the crowd’s enjoyment. Afterward, he went and showered, rinsing off the blood and enduring the return of the shame and disgust at the marks he saw under the bathroom lights. His nakedness brought them back front and center to his mind.

But there were times where they faded. 

Richard was always the first in bed, and almost always asleep before he was joined by his partner. When Till crawled into bed, trying his best to not jostle the bed too much, he would lay next to Richard. Every time, Richard would roll over to face him, eyes still closed. He’d then reach his sleepy arms out to pull his partner closer, and Till would oblige. He’d scoot over and be immediately snuggled by Richard’s soft arms and hands. He loved the feeling of the man’s overly warm body pressing up close to his own and nuzzling into his chest. More than that, Till loved how he always rubbed his hands comfortingly up and down Till’s arms before settling back into sleep. Till then drifted off himself, allowing his shame and hatred of the scars to dissipate with his consciousness.

Under Richard’s touch, Till always hated them just a little bit less.


	6. Fog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fog is difficult to drive in

“Just re--”

“If you fucking say “just relax” one more time, Lorenz, I swear I’ll purposefully run us right off the goddamn road.”

Flake snapped his mouth closed at that rebuttal, his face dropping to a pout.  
“I’m just trying to help,” he muttered sourly.

Till’s grip tightened even further on the steering wheel and his jaw set into a heavy scowl. The fog was outrageously bad this morning, and Flake didn’t understand why Till had insisted on driving rather than calling a cab. Not only was Till a somewhat nervous driver anyway, not being able to see more than a meter ahead of the car had him almost panicked. He hunched forward over the wheel, driving the car at little more than a crawling speed. Rather than fearing what lay ahead, Flake was more concerned that someone would hit them from behind because of how slow they were driving.

He rolled his eyes and turned his exasperated gaze out the window. It was still dark, and the fog rolled in waves across the countryside, obscuring the normally beautiful landscape. 

“If you really want to help, just talk to me,” Till growled, though Flake heard a faint tone of fear underlying his irritable words. 

He turned back to face his friend, and felt a bit sorry that he’d gotten frustrated so easily. Till hadn’t had the best week, and while Flake wasn’t sure why, he had a feeling this drive had to do with Till wanting control back over his life, even in something as small as this.

“What do you want me to talk about?” Flake asked, his voice a bit softer.

“I don’t care. Anything.”

“That’s a pretty big list,” Flake said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I could tell you about that synthesizer repairman who got high from just touching an old tab of acid.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Till agreed, clenching his teeth as they passed a tree beside the road that they’d not even seen until it was right next to them.

“It was back in 2019,” Flake began, trying to remember the details. “He took an old synthesizer-- a Buchla Model 100-- from California State University. It had been in storage since the 60’s, they said. He brought it home and started cleaning it, and tried to get some sort of crystal substance out from under a knob.”

As Flake retold his tale, he watched Till from the corner of his eye. The man was still extremely stressed, but Flake had known him long enough to be able to tell that the tension was ever so slightly easing as he spoke.

“He sprayed it with a cleaner and wiped the substance off with his finger. 45 minutes later, he was high as hell, apparently to the point that he was high for 9 hours.”

“Can acid last that long?”

Flake was pleased that Till had relaxed enough to ask a question, and noted that his knuckles weren’t quite as white while gripping the steering wheel.

“It can, yes,” Flake asserted. “LSD can stick around and even remain strong for a very long time under the right conditions, which apparently university musical instrument storage is. The guy even got the remains of the substance tested, and it was confirmed to be acid. So apparently those tabs were so strong that they lasted for over 50 years untouched, and still managed to give a high from just touching them.”

“Imagine the fucking high when they were fresh,” Till mused, shaking his head slightly in disbelief.

“I imagine the people taking it had their minds transcendentally blown. Lucky bastards.”

Till snorted, and Flake was further gladdened to see his concern gradually leaving. He also noted that there was a faint lightness growing through the fog. Daylight was approaching, and he knew the fog would vanish with the sun’s rays.

“So what happened to the repairman?” Till asked.

“9 hours later, he put on a pair of gloves and finished fixing up the old Buchla.”

Till laughed at that, and Flake felt proud he was able to help his friend with nothing more than a silly story about a synthesizer and drugs. 

As the sun finally broke over the horizon, warming them and banishing the majority of the fog, Till sighed in relief and turned his head to look at Flake for the first time that morning.  
“I think I’ll let you drive next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is one of my favorites, and is actually true! A poor repairman got astoundingly high while cleaning a synthesizer from the 60's xD


	7. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul gets haunted

“This place is *fucking* haunted,” Richard spat as he stormed out of the hotel room. “I’m waiting at the airport for the flight home. You can stay here and star in your own horror movie if you want, but I’m out.”

With that, Richard slammed the hotel door closed behind him. Paul winced at the loud sound, but didn’t move from his spot on the bed. They’d made a mistake in booking travel and while Till, Flake, and Oli had managed to stay either with family or fly back last minute, Richard and Paul had been stuck in this little town as they waited for their flight back. The only vacancy in it had been a very run-down hotel, with only one room. Richard tolerated the lights flickering, and even the water somehow turning on by itself, but the very second that several notebooks had fallen from the rickety desk in the corner, he’d made his abrupt exit.

Paul yanked off his shirt and flopped back against the bedspread, wrinkling his nose at the smell of cigarette smoke and mildew. Maybe he should have kept it on. This quilt was pretty gross.

A light breeze floated past him, giving him goosebumps.  
“I never understood why old hotels were such ideal places for ghosts and stuff,” he murmured.

The cool air whispered across his body again, and then Paul heard a breathy chuckle next to him.  
“It *is* pretty dismal in here.”

With a grin, Paul turned his head to face the new voice in the room.

Schneider, or rather a shimmering outline of Schneider, sat on the bed beside Paul, an amused look on his face. He was much clearer today.

“So, why is it always in places like this that you’re most “active”?” Paul queried as he sat up to face his friend.

Schneider’s ghostly visage looked thoughtful. “I imagine it has to do with belief. People have been trained to think of these types of places as “haunted--” he made quotation marks in the air with his fingers, “so, their heightened belief makes it easier to exist here.”

“And your existing makes them believe even more, so it cycles back,” Paul said. “I guess that makes sense, then.”

He tried, for probably the thousandth time, to place his hand on Schneider’s, but as always the touch phased through and settled on the bed instead. His fingers felt icy cold where they “met” Schneider’s and he grimaced, but left them there. It was a small sacrifice to pay for the contact, however faint it might be.

“It’s nice to see you again,” Schneider said, gently moving his fingers across Paul’s hand. Tiny goosebumps followed the path he traced from the hand and up along the man’s arm.

Paul sighed again, inclining his head slightly toward Schneider as his eyes fluttered happily.  
“I missed you,” Paul murmured. “Badly.”

“I know,” Schneider said right back, his voice dropping to a low croon. He drifted his fingers up from across Paul’s arm to his shoulder, and smiled when the coolness of his spirit-touch caused the earthly man to shiver pleasantly.  
“I missed you too.”

Though he wanted so badly to stay up and talk, to allow the night to lengthen and the cool faux touches to linger, Paul could barely keep his eyes open anymore. He tried his best to stifle a yawn, but it forced itself out anyway. He turned away, refusing to give in to the exhaustion.

Schneider still saw. With a faint, barely audible laugh, he leaned in and pursed his lips as if to kiss. Paul gathered his remaining strength and tried to kiss back. His lips met icy air, and he sighed through his nose as he held his pursed mouth for a moment longer. When the cold retreated, Paul made a saddened noise.

“You need to sleep. But don’t worry; I’m not going anywhere,” Schneider assured.

With a grunt, Paul begrudgingly laid back against the pillows, his eyes drooping heavily. “Better not.”

Schneider moved to lay beside him, doing his best to not overlap him, as he knew the chill would be too uncomfortable for Paul to sleep with. 

As Paul slipped into a weary sleep, Schneider watched over him, protectively and lovingly as he savoured the time he got to spend doing so. He couldn’t help himself and brushed a non-existent finger across Paul’s shoulder once more.

“I’ll always be right here.”


End file.
